


Holding the Edge

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Killian Jones does not want the questions. He doesn't want the interviews or the spotlight or the sky-high expectations.The world, however, does not seem to care. The world, after all, loves a good comeback story.And Killian Jones is one heck of a comeback story. With his eyes on gold. And maybe slightly gold'ish hair and green eyes and, yeah, maybe he's got some questions of his own.





	Holding the Edge

The first thing he remembers is the noise.

It’s loud.

There’s screaming and yelling and someone’s shouting his name and then, quite suddenly, there’s a sound that might be a screech and it seems to rattle around his brain and his skull and it might be coming from...him.

He closes his eyes after that and doesn’t remember the rest.

It’s loud when he wakes up again. There are beeps and clicks and the sound of slightly squeaky shoes on linoleum floors and even more voices. These ones are more subdued. They’re low and earnest and decidedly sad and the words echo in between his ears because the words absolutely, positively do not make any sense at all.

The faces are all a little blurry when he blinks open his eyes and it takes a moment for shadows to form actual shapes and then he’s not entirely certain he wants to see the shapes. Because they’re all so goddamn depressing.

And staring straight at him. And still talking. And possibly crying. He’s not sure who’s crying.

It might be him.

The words themselves aren’t loud, but it feels like they’re being screamed in his face – unprecedented, complete loss, lucky to be alive. They’re all there, spoken in that same, even tone that sounds like screams and Killian doesn’t really process any of them until he glances down and sees a distinct lack of anything at the end of his left arm.

“It’s over, Killian,” Robin mutters, resting a hand on his shoulder like that’ll lessen the blow of the words or the rushing in his ears.

It drowns out the machines.

Killian shakes his head. “Bullshit,” he says.

He’s getting on that ice.

* * *

Killian does not appreciate the phrase _international sensation_ , but people keep using it and saying it and he’s fairly positive it’s on some kind of graphic every time his face is on TV and his face is on TV quite a bit.

Too much.

But that’s, apparently, par for the course or whatever. Or so Robin tells him.

“You knew this going in,” Robin reasons, crossing his arms lightly and the move only serves to twist up the Team USA sweater they’ve been told they have to wear. On pain of death. Probably not those words.

Killian hasn’t been listening.

There have been a lot of interviews. He is not convinced his brain hasn’t just melted.

“Yeah,” Killian sighs and he can’t run his hand through his hair the way he wants to because there is a goddamn hat with stars on it in the way. It’s freezing in South Korea. And very loud.

Again.

It makes him jumpy and irritable. Regina has already told him that sixteen times.

“And?” Robin prompts.

Killian rolls his eyes. “And I will answer questions with a smile on my face and the pride of America in my heart and promises that I’m just happy to be here no matter what happens.”

“Yeah, that sounded really sincere.”  
  
“I practiced in front of the mirror this morning.”  
  
“That’s weird.”  
  
“Your wife threatened to strangle me if I didn’t.”

“And that’s a lie,” Robin laughs, stepping out of the way when _another_ NBC correspondent appears in front of them with a microphone in hand and a camera crew and the lights are getting brighter.

Killian is positive.

“A stretch of the truth at most,” he mumbles, shrugging when a tech starts putting something on his face because God forbid he’s shiny on national television. Robin hums, lower lip stuck out slightly and it’s the most obnoxious noise in the history of the world.

And they’re on.

Or so the reporter says in a slightly strangled voice that doesn’t belong in the situation because the Opening Ceremonies are going to be tape delayed and Killian barely suppresses his laugh before he turns towards the camera.

The questions are, as expected, exactly what they’ve been for the last two years.

His smile feels decidedly forced.

It shouldn’t. Because he’s lucky and stubborn and some kind of comeback story for some kind of history book in the metaphorical sense and, really, Killian has never been more excited to strap dangerously sharp blades to his feet and skate as fast as he can.

If only to prove that he still can.

He absolutely can.

It’s all going according to plan – questions about the rehab and the training and how _excited_ he is to be representing America – until the plan gets tripped up a few inches from the finish line and promptly crashes into the boards and it’s all déjà vu and bright lights and Killian’s not sure he’s breathing.

“Was there ever a moment where you thought it was all too much?”

Killian’s eyes water under the lights, a distinct lack of blinking as he tries to remember the English language and it’s strange that it’s _that_ question because the answer is obvious.

Of course.

He sat in that hospital bed and they told him his hand was gone and skating was gone and he’d never been particularly good at anything except skating. The whole thing had been a fluke – the slightly broken, always fuzzy TV that sat in the corner of his and Liam’s apartment when they were kids only able to get over-the-air channels and neither one of them had ever cared about sports.

There were more important things to worry about.

Eating. The rent. Keeping the lights on.

But there was a moment and probably divine intervention of some kind and Killian Jones had sat down in front of the TV when he was eleven years old and watched the Olympic Games and it was as if something switched on.

And, suddenly, the idea was there. He could have a life through sports. He could fix it.

All of it.

It didn’t work, naturally, because skates were expensive and ice time was expensive and there wasn’t anyone within a thousand-mile radius of Norfolk, Virginia who knew enough about speed skating to tell an eleven-year-old kid that he was already too old to start.

Liam, naturally, did not care. He bought Killian second-hand inline skates for his twelfth birthday and it was an unmitigated disaster of scraped knees and bruised hands and Killian fell far more than he moved, but he did, eventually, move and then he started racing and winning and it went from there.

He found ice and skates that actually fit and blades that were only a little intimidating and he kept racing. He kept winning.

And the goddamn United States of America started to take notice.

Robin found him, prepping for nationals or Worlds or some other event that Killian was only dimly aware of – or, as Robin liked to tell it, _discovered him_ in some run-down rink in Tampa because Liam had been transferred and there was, inexplicably, ice in Florida and it clicked.

Again.

There were more races and more blades and everything went in some kind of blur because short track speed skating was an adrenaline rush of a very specific kind until it, suddenly, stopped.

Crashed right into the boards.

And managed to fuck up nearly every nerve-ending in his wrist in the process.

The blades were very sharp.

“Killian,” Robin mumbles and it’s obvious it’s not the first time he’s tried to get his attention. Killian, finally, blinks. His retinas apprecaite it.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, knocking off the hat when he tries to run his hand through his hair. “That was...what was the question?”  
  
The reporter smiles, soft and easy and just a hint patronizing. “When you were rehabbing,” she says. “Did you ever think about walking away? It must have been an appealing thought.”

“No. I didn’t. This sport has been everything for as long as I can remember and missing the chance to compete in 2014 was something I’m still bitter about. I always knew I was going to come back. No matter what.”  
  
Liar.

There are more questions and Killian doesn’t do anymore damage to his eyes in the process and he’s just about to walk into the stadium when he hears an exclamation and something that sounds a bit like a yelp and the noise seems to rattle around his brain like it’s trying to make sure he knows how _important_ the moment is.

The body that crashes into him is incredibly solid and clearly frustrated, a string of curses that would scandalize the entire population of America if they were, actually, live.

Killian stumbles back, arm wrapping around her waist – because it’s definitely a _her_ if the blonde hair currently trying to suffocate him is any indication – and that only serves to draw another pointed _fuck_ out of her.

“What the fuck are these wires doing here?” she asks, the words muffled a bit when they’re spoken, mostly, into his shoulder.

He tries not to laugh. He does. He bites his lip and his tongue until they’re both bleeding, but there’s a woman draped over him and hair trying to kill him and a slightly scandalized NBC crew and it may be the single most absurd thing that’s ever happened to him.

Until he realizes that it’s his left arm around her waist and Robin looks like he’s waiting for the world to end and Killian’s never moved faster in his life.

Even on the ice.

“They tend to use wires where there are TV cameras involved, love,” Killian mutters, leaning back when the woman uses her fist to push off him. “And you’re the one who crashed the set, I don’t think you get to be the angry one in this situation.”

She grumbles, shaking her hair out of her face and...oh.

 _Oh_.

In the days and weeks and years that follow – the rest of his _goddamn life_ – Killian will promise that it was a little bit like seeing the sun. This will, eventually, make her laugh, but in the present moment she’s just as disgruntled as ever, all narrow eyes and a slight sneer to her lips that’s almost threatening.

She’s wearing Team USA paraphernalia.

She’s wearing the hat.

“Are you an athlete?” Killian asks, ignoring Robin’s stifled scoff at the absurdity of the question. The woman’s eyes widen.

“Yes.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what? You really shouldn't have all these wires here. It’s...it’s a hazard.”

“A point you’ve proven rather well, love. And it’s not my set. Not my rules.”  
  
“Ok, that’s got to stop,” she hisses and her eyes turn hard, a flash of green that’s somewhere closer to steel and he desperately wants to know everything about her. “I don’t care whose set it is or who’s in charge of it, you should just move these wires or someone is going to kill themselves.”  
  
“I promise not to let you die.”

He’s not quite sure what she does with her face – a twist of her lips that feels far too judgmental to be positive, but with just a hint of curiosity that gives him some sort of hope. He’s clearly lost his mind.

“Was that a line?” she asks incredulously. “It sounded a hell of a lot like a line.”  
  
Killian shrugs, rocking back on his heels and he hopes NBC isn’t recording this. “Depends on your reaction, I suppose.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ah,” he says, but it might be a sigh and he can only imagine what Robin looks like behind him. Probably stunned. Or texting Regina. Or, God forbid, Face’timing Regina.

And that should, probably, be it. The conversation should be over and they should be marching or whatever the appropriate term is for an Olympian making his debut far later than originally expected, but she’s still staring at him and that hope is still simmering in the pit of his stomach and Killian can’t seem to stop talking.

“You have a name?” he asks. Robin doesn’t even try to mask his laughter. Killian glares at him. The woman, maybe, smiles.

“Yes,” she says cooly, but the ends of her mouth are still quirked up and maybe this isn’t the disaster he thinks it is. Until she doesn’t say anything else.

“And?”  
  
“And you need to learn how to phrase your questions so you get the answers you’re actually looking for. See you later, Killian Jones, international sensation.”

She’s gone as soon as the words are out of her mouth, the smile on her face obvious and Killian would swear in front of several different judges and a whole platoon of reporters that her eyes, somehow, get brighter.

Robin laughs louder.

“Stop it,” Killian warns, but he doesn’t and it’s, almost, understandable.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Robin chuckles. “Try and act like that’s not the best thing that’s happened to you in actual years.”

It absolutely is. 

* * *

The Opening Ceremonies are loud.

There are fireworks and screaming fans and some kind of drone presentation that only kind of freaks him out because technology is kind of freaky, but that only gets Robin to make fun of him more and by the time Killian lands on an incredibly uncomfortable mattress in the Olympic Village, he’s exhausted and a bit disappointed and he really shouldn’t be either.

This is the moment.

As they say.

And they have – several thousand times in several hundred different articles and TV reports and he’s got a heat in two days, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about blonde hair and green eyes and he really should have gotten her name.

That, however, appears to be some kind of impossible task because the Olympics themselves aren’t just loud, they’re busy and hectic and he’s impossibly overscheduled.

“You did this to yourself,” Belle says pointedly three days and four races later and it feels like his thighs are on fire.

That can't be healthy.

“Thank you,” Killian sighs, slumping into the corner of the chair he’s claimed as his own in the quasi-common room of the Team USA building and he hasn’t seen any blonde hair in three days. Well, at least not the right blonde hair. “Are you even supposed to be here?” he adds. “Don’t you have a sled to be driving?”  
  
“That’s bobsled.”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
Belle nods, mouth curling into a smile and she’s very clearly trying not to give him some kind of overprotective speech. “Why would I lie about that? Also how could you possibly think drive was the correct verb? I’m, literally, lying down. I don’t even see where I’m going.”  
  
“That gives me pause.”  
  
“I haven’t crashed yet.”

It’s a joke – he’s well aware it’s a joke, but Killian can’t stop the way his stomach lurches or whatever it is his face does and Belle looks momentarily traumatized because they’ve all had to censor themselves for the last four years.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, twisting her legs underneath her and there’s a TV on in the background. He hopes NBC doesn’t play that spot about him again. He might kick the screen if he sees photos of Liam on a national broadcast again.

“Don’t be. You are not required to consider your phrasing before you speak.”  
  
“That sounded like a very impressive sentence for a guy who I know is only getting a couple of hours of sleep a night.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“See, you keep arguing with me, but you know I’m right,” she grins, resting her chin on her knees. “Of course, that’s why you’re arguing, but that’s not the point.”

“And what, pray tell is the point?”  
  
Belle’s eyes flash, a knowing look born of the last five years and a random run-in at the Team USA media summit just before the Sochi Games and she didn’t crash in 2014. She won a gold medal. And a silver. And she was absolutely going to repeat.

When she wasn’t busy lecturing Killian about his sleeping habits.

“You know you could just ask around,” Belle says knowingly. “I’m sure someone knows what her name is.”

Killian groans and this chair can’t be doing anything for his spine or his overworked thighs. “I’m going to murder Locksley.”  
  
“Regina won’t appreciate that.”  
  
“Regina can deal. Why is he gossiping?”  
  
“He’s worried,” Belle shrugs. “We’ve circled back around to the not sleeping thing. And he claims you’ve been preoccupied on the ice.”  
  
“I won two of my heats.”  
  
“You raced in three.”  
  
“And you think I should be winning all of them?” he asks, arching an eyebrow and it’s the most obvious defense mechanism in the history of the world. Belle does not look impressed.

“No,” she answers. “But you do. Add it all together and you get one very disgruntled and slightly exhausted Olympian. So, c’mon, spill. Why haven’t you tracked her down?”  
  
Killian groans again and he wishes he could come up with a better sound to make, but the TV is distracting and people are yelling and, possibly, sweeping ice and the only excuse he has will, absolutely, paint him in the worst light possible.

“Because that sounds a hell of a lot like stalking,” he reasons, tugging on the hair behind his ears and Belle’s face, somehow, gets more _knowing_. “And did you just use the word spill in conversation? Is that a thing that actually just happened?”  
  
She blushes, eyes falling to her feet and lips pressed together tightly and maybe the tide of the conversation is turning. He can’t come up with an appropriate speed skating analogy. He hopes that’s not a sign.

“I’m going to tell Lucas she’s rubbing off on you,” Killain grins. Belle glares at him. That may be the first time that’s happened.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  
  
“No, no, love conquers all and all that. When does she race?”  
  
“Tomorrow and we have to be there at noon, so, try and actually get some sleep tonight because I’m going to be really annoyed if you sleep through your alarm.”  
  
“That would require me to get some sleep,” Killian mutters, a quiet admission he didn’t really have to make because Belle absolutely knew and Robin was probably waking up once every two hours to check on him or something.

Lucas has probably researched REM sleep.

Regina definitely made a chart.

And, honestly, it's nice. It's supportive and vaguely familial which, while skating on the other side of the world against international competition, is some sort of wonderful thing, but Killian really didn’t want to watch Lucas ski down a mountain tomorrow and he was super pissed about that one heat he didn’t win.

Over-competitive asshole.

“Oh my gosh,” Belle breathes and for half a moment he thinks she’s talking about his sleep schedule, but she’s not looking at him when he glances he up.

She’s looking at the TV and the flash of blonde hair and green eyes and he doesn’t remember standing up.

Or walking.

He’s in front of the screen before he realizes his brain has directed him there, mouth hanging open and breath coming in wholly unattractive pants and it’s her. Right there, standing in front of him, or _whatever_ , it doesn’t matter.

She’s there on TV with a broom in her hand and a Team USA shirt on and there’s a name on the graphic – Emma Swan.

Curler.

“Holy shit,” Killian mumbles, fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm against his thigh and he’s not sure what to do next.

There’s not anything to do next.

Except maybe learn all the rules to curling.

He spins back around, still breathing erratically and Belle looks as if she’s seen several sunrises occur at the same time. She’s already got her phone out.

“Did you know that a round of curling is called an end?” she asks and he’s not sure what sound he makes. It might be a sigh. Or just general acceptance. “And that you get eight ends in mixed doubles? Which, by the way, is also making its Olympic debut?”  
  
Belle grins, something that feels like joy or possibly his entire future just stretching out between them, and Killian’s shoulders sag a bit when the sigh turns into a laugh and that goddamn hope he felt just before the Opening Ceremonies.

He’s definitely lost his mind.

“You just know that off the top of your head, then?” he asks.

“Research. And you’re missing the point. Again”  
  
“Naturally.”

“It’s her first time here too.”

Oh.

_Oh._

* * *

He doesn’t sleep through his alarm, but it’s very close – groaning when a pillow hits his face and Robin’s laugh is far too loud for whatever time it is.

It is impossibly cold at the bottom of a mountain in South Korea and Killian doesn’t hate the hat quite as much anymore when the wind seems to actually start whipping at them.

“God, how do they not actually freeze on the way down?” Robin grumbles, bobbing on his feet and there’s already a camera trained on them, waiting for their reactions as soon as Ruby skids to a stop in front of them.

Killian has no idea when that might be.

“They get used to it,” Belle says, but she keeps tugging on her hood like that will make a difference. “And you skate on ice. You go fast.”  
  
“Yeah, not that fast.”  
  
“Both of you want to stop?” Killian mumbles and he doesn’t have to glance to his right or left to know that both Belle and Robin are making identical expressions. “It’s too cold to be complaining.”

Robin hums in agreement and Belle mutters something that sounds like _yeah, sure_ and the Austrian skier that stops in front of them sends a sheet of snow towards all three of their faces. They make matching sounds of surprise and anger and the TV catches it all because of course and Killian wishes his legs would stop moving before he’s given them permission to do so.

“I’m going to…” he starts, but the sentence never ends and he’s already walking anyway.

He’s not paying attention to where he’s going, eyes on his feet and mind several hours away at a different Olympic venue and he’s got a semifinal the next day. So, naturally, he runs into her.

Like.

Right into her.

She swears again.

And he’s absolutely fucked.  
  
“Do you have a death wish?” Emma asks, growling out the question with a pinch between her eyebrows and she’s not actually looking at him yet. “Shit, I think I’m concussed.”  
  
“I really don’t think you’re concussed. Bruised, maybe, but definitely not concussed.”

“And how would you--” She snaps her head up and Killian resists the urge to tell her she wouldn’t be able to do that if she was concussed. He’s far too busy being stunned by her anyway. “You,” she seethes, but her tongue darts out between her lips and it’s incredibly distracting. “Are you stalking me?”

“No, no,” he stammers. “I’m actively trying not to stalk you, actually.”  
  
“Excuse me?”

He’s impressed that he’s managed to put his foot in his mouth while standing still.

They’re still touching each other, chests pressed together and it’s a dangerous realization because he’s suddenly aware of how much she absolutely does not make sense – a mix of strength and soft and, he imagines, absurdly defined arms because it takes a lot of muscle to get curling stones to move.

Or so his research told him while he was being the world’s biggest creep the night before.

“Yeah, that came out like absolute shit, didn't it?” Killian asks and Emma’s eyes widen, but then she’s scoffing under her breath and it’s just enough like laughter that he’s fairly certain she won’t kick him.

“It did,” she agrees. “Why...why are you trying not to stalk me? How is that even possible? Aren’t you crazy busy all the time? That’s what they’re saying on TV.”  
  
She winces as soon as the question is out of her mouth, nose scrunching and the pinch between her eyebrows deepen. There’s a flush on her cheeks that he likes to believe isn’t entirely from the wind.

“Shit,” Emma mutters and she’s squeezed one of her eyes closed. “That was...I’m not, like, actively seeking out your interviews. Just for the record.”  
  
“Ah, so you’ve heard of me then?”  
  
She scowls. “You’re on television every other commercial break. It’s annoying. You are annoying.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”

“Why are you even here? Don’t you have some record to break or another sponsorship to hawk?”

“That’s rude, Swan,” Killian grins and it feels a hell of a lot like flirting until he remembers that she never actually told him her name, let alone gave permission for quasi-nicknames and he wonders if it would be too much to ask of the mountain to just...fall on him.

Emma blinks, lips twisting slightly and she crosses her arms. Her eyes trace over him, like she’s looking for the joke or the lie and is only slightly confused not to find either.

She doesn’t look at his left arm once.

He’s positive that will also affect his sleep schedule.

“I wasn’t aware we’d been officially introduced,” Emma says. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors on this whole not stalking thing.”

“You were on TV too.”

It’s, obviously, not what she expects to hear and there’s far too much green in her stare when her eyes widen again. “You were watching that?” she asks softly and the caution in her voice does something absurd to both of his lungs.

“I will admit that I don’t entirely understand how it works, but you seemed to be doing it well.”  
  
“That sounds like a line too.”  
  
“It wasn’t,” Killian promises. “The first one might have been, but that one wasn’t. Just facts.”

“You just admitted you didn’t know how it worked.”  
  
“Are you trying to hit a contradiction quota or is this just how our conversations are going to operate from here on out?”

He needs her to stop doing that thing with her eyes – widening them and saying things without saying things and he briefly wonders what she would look like before, during and after kissing him, but it’s an absurd thought and he’s freezing cold and making out at the bottom of a mountain would probably just get them on several other TV broadcasts and a handful of gossip websites.

“That seems to suggest that there’ll be more conversations after this one,” Emma points out, but there’s definitely a smile on her face now. “Confident, huh? That’s what the TV keeps saying.”  
  
“Ah, you shouldn’t listen to everything you hear on TV, Swan.”

She hums and it sounds far more understanding than it probably should. He still wants to know everything about her. “Noted. Why are you here, though? Unless the TV was lying to me again you’ve got some kind of unprecedented schedule to prepare for.”  
  
“Again, that’s an exaggeration, but, uh…” He glances over his shoulder when he hears the cheer, not surprised when he already _knows_ it’s Belle and Robin and Emma is shouting something, using his shoulder as leverage to try and see above the crowd around them.

Killian is certain his brain short circuits.

He can’t actually feel her through her glove or his jacket, but she’s still touching him and it’s so casual and normal and neither one of those things should affect his center of gravity, but they do and he’s grateful that his knees don’t shake.

“Go, Rubes, go, go, go,” she shouts and she’s kind of jumping and kind of standing and it only hurts a little when his heart explodes out of his chest.

“Wait, what?” Killian snaps. He turns on the spot, arm colliding with Emma’s side and her hair hits him in the face again. “Are you cheering for Lucas?”  
  
“Lucas?”  
  
“What?”

“This conversation is going absolutely nowhere.”

“Em,” another voice calls and Killian’s whole body sags under the weight of his disappointment. Emma bites her lip. “Em! Seriously. You said you were going to get hot chocolate and you just disappeared. I thought you’d been swallowed by an avalanche or something.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, still leaning against Killian and neither one of them has tried to walk away from the other. “I was on my way back,” she mutters and the voice makes some kind of dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you were. I...oh, hey. You’re Killian Jones. You’re on TV all the time.”

The voice, it turns out, is a guy who is also wearing Team USA gear and the voice has eyes and the eyes glance immediately at Killian’s left hand.

Or his distinct lack of a left hand.

“So they tell me,” Killian says, working a laugh out of Emma. He’s never going to sleep again. “And I don’t think you would have been able to miss an avalanche. Noisy, you know?”

The guy quirks an eyebrow and it feels like some kind of standoff, but Emma groans, twisting away from Killian with a hand resting on his chest.

He swallows.

“You didn’t have to come find me, David,” she grumbles. “Did you even see Rubes run?”  
  
“Did you?”

Emma bristles and Killian’s brain continues to do things he’s not entirely in control of, pushing his hand out into the space between them. “Killian Jones,” he says, as if they haven’t already done this. “And you are…”  
  
The moment seems to stretch out forever and he’s briefly considering just throwing himself at the mountain, but then his hand is moving and they’re shaking hands and Emma breathes an audible sigh of relief.

“David Nolan,” the guy says, a note of _something_ in his voice that feels a bit like a threat. “I’m Emma’s older brother and partner.”

“Oh my God,” Emma mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. The other one hasn’t left Killian’s chest.

They are a pretzel of feeling and Olympian and criss-crossed relationships that might actually be fate. Lucas would call it fate.

Lucas is a bit of a secret romantic.

“Are you here to just generally support America then, Killian?” David asks. Emma shakes her head.

“No, no, a very specific support,” Killian answers. “And apparently similar to yours. One of my best friends is dating Lucas.”

“Belle?”  
  
“Unless there’s a lot more to that relationship than I’m being told.”

Emma laughs again, trying to turn it into any other sound, but the attempt falls a bit flat. “It’s definitely Belle,” she says. “I can’t...how do you know Belle?”

“The last Olympics.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I had every intention of going before I got hurt, love,” Killian shrugs, like it’s not still devastating to talk about or every question isn’t some kind of fresh cut and open wound that he’s fairly positive is festering in a worse-than-metaphorical kind of way.

That would probably ruin the moment.

“Oh, right, right,” Emma stammers. She doesn’t argue the endearment. He doesn’t think about that for hours later. “Of course, I, shit, sorry.”  
  
“That’s not something you have to apologize for.”  
  
“Ruby know my sister-in-law. Went to college together and friends for life or whatever and now she’s, like, running our Olympic lives.”  
  
“It can be kind of overwhelming to start,” Killian says, voice dropping and he desperately asks the mountain to, somehow, get David to leave. The mountain ignores him. Figures. “Loud.”  
  
“Oh my God, it’s so loud, right? And that’s coming from someone who’s honestly supposed to shout while competing.”  
  
“Yeah, not a lot of that in speed skating. Usually.”  
  
“Usually?”  
  
Killian nods and the air seems to get crisper. Or tenser. And Ruby probably has to race again soon. He thinks.

“Right,” Emma breathes and he’s not entirely prepared for her to thrust her hand out towards him. “Emma,” she adds, the caution back and his stomach flips and flops and then settles back into its appropriate place like it’s been waiting his entire life for that moment. “Swan. Emma Swan.”

He takes her hand.

He imagines it’s warm.

“Killian Jones.”

She smiles. And gravity is vastly overrated. “I’ll see you soon?”  
  
“Absolutely.”

* * *

It is not soon.

It is a frustratingly long amount of time and there are more races and more workouts and more practice and Killian sleeps through the night for the first time on a Wednesday in PyeongChang.

And, honestly, he’s not sure how it all works, but he asks Regina for help and he’s fairly positive she knows someone in the IOC so he gets a ticket and a seat and attempts to learn how curling works while watching Emma Swan and David Nolan try and earn a berth to the gold medal match.

He’s almost confident they win when the crowd starts yelling and Emma starts yelling and Killian is standing again.

She jumps towards David, the smile on her face wide and exuberant and there are American flags everywhere and Killian doesn’t know how she sees him.

She does.

She turns, feet dangling above the ice when David lifts her and Killian feels his mouth tick up as soon as Emma’s eyes land on him.

He waves.

God, what an idiot.

It gets her to smile wider.

Emma mouths something, waving one hand over her brother's shoulder and it takes a few moments for him to figure out what she’s saying.

 _Don’t leave_.

He doesn’t. He has to battle a few security guards, but then they see his face and there aren’t anymore questions and Killian briefly wonders if the United States will let him back home if he doesn’t return laden down with medals.

It takes, what feels like, forever, and his phone is close to dying when he hears footsteps. She’s still smiling.

“Hey,” Emma says, licking her lips quickly and Killian’s pulse stutters. “I didn’t...were you here the whole time?”  
  
He nods, sitting up a bit straighter. She doesn’t sit down. “I don’t think they’d let me in after the fact, Swan.”  
  
“Don’t you need to be skating somewhere? Or making moves on the outside turn?”  
  
“You’re very worried with my schedule.”  
  
“I’ve been spending way too much time with Ruby.”  
  
“Ah, well, no, I don’t. At least not until later. And I wanted to see if I could get a handle on curling.”  
  
“Right,” Emma mutters, stretching the word out and her fingers are tapping on her thigh when she bends her knees and sits down. In the seat right next to him. “And did you? Get a handle? I feel like that’s a speed skating pun.”  
  
“Edge,” Killian corrects. “You get your edge in skating.”  
  
“Naturally.”

“And, to answer your question, possibly. I’m not sure I entirely understand the scoring without judges. How does that work?”  
  
“On your honor.”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“Honestly,” Emma echoes, nodding seriously. “There is no room for dicks in curling. Mixed or otherwise.”

Killian chokes on air, dimly aware of how disappointed his friends will be if he suffocates in the otherwise abandoned stands of the curling arena. Emma smiles. “Shit, Swan,” he mutters, tugging his fingers through his hair and it’s definitely flirting. Unless he’s going crazy. He might be going crazy. “You can’t just say shit like that.”  
  
“That was funny!”  
  
“I’m not disputing the humor of it. Just give a man some warning next time, huh?” She hums, amusement flashing across her face when she rests her head on the back of her chair. Her knees nearly bump his. “Congratulations, by the way,” Killian adds softly. “We should have led with that.”  
  
Emma’s expression changes, amusement morphing into disbelief into something that looks a bit closer to awe and just a bit of confusion and the questions are practically falling out of him.

“Thanks,” she mutters. “That’s...it’s nice that you were here. Or are here. Present tense.”  
  
“I had a rooting interest.”  
  
She laughs, low and honest and it settles in between each one of his ribs, warming him from the inside out and it’s easily the most sentimental thing he’s ever thought. “That was a good line.”  
  
“Third time’s the charm.”

He asks his questions.

And they avoid security guards for another hour and a half, ignoring schedules and friends and, likely, the American Olympic committee, but Killian can’t even consider moving when Emma keeps talking and he wants to know absolutely everything.

She started curling – ”That’s a real verb, I promise, it is.” “I’m not questioning your grasp of the language, Swan, just pointing out that it’s a fairly ridiculous verb.” – as a joke, not even a decade before and there’d been alcohol involved and her sister-in-law had looked the rules up on her phone.

“We used actual brooms,” Emma recounts, voice getting scratchier the longer they keep talking. “Stole them out of Ruth’s laundry room in the middle of the night over winter break and, you know, it was totally Ruby’s idea, but Mary Margaret is the single most positive person in the world, so she was certain it was a good idea too. I nearly broke my leg six different times.”  
  
“That’s an admirable feat, love.”  
  
“Right? I didn’t, but we wrecked those brooms and it just kind of spiraled from there. We had to crowd-fund to get here, did a whole lot of less-than-dignified begging and it was touch and go for a while, but now we’re guaranteed a medal, so suck it everybody else.”

Killian barks out a laugh, leaning towards her until they’re practically breathing the same air. “That’s the Olympic spirit, love.”

“Not all of us have a TV crew following them around, documenting their comeback.”  
  
“I didn’t want that,” Killian mutters. “None of it. Not really.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured.”  
  
“And Ruth is?”

It’s the wrong question or one question too many and Emma’s body tenses immediately. She clicks her tongue, as if she’s considering her answer or the closest exit and Killian tries not to breathe too loudly.

“My mom?” she mutters, shrugging slightly. Killian bites his tongue. “I mean kind of. David’s mom, but my...foster mom’ish? I mean she never adopted me, but I stayed there until I was eighteen and it’s, you know, just paperwork. So, yeah, mom. Definitely mom.”  
  
He freezes.

His body is stuck in some weird limbo where common ground exists and tragic backstories aren’t relegated to just him and Killian maybe, suddenly, wants to win for a totally different reason.

“What?” Emma presses cautiously and he shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake away memories or break through metaphorical walls.

He tells her. He talks until his voice sounds like someone else’s – about Liam and the apartment and the static on the TV he can still hear if he closes his eyes. He tells her about the distinct lack of parents and how cold that apartment was, even when they were in Florida and she smiles like she understands what it feels like to lose something.

He tells her about finding the sport and the speed and the rush that came from the sound of the crowd and how much he loved the noise.

“I swear I could feel it in me,” he whispers and it’s the first time he’s told _anyone_ that. “The cheers and the shouts and the blades on the ice. God, I loved that.”  
  
Emma bites her lip and blinks twice and he’s not sure either one of them are ready when she moves, fingers brushing over his left forearm. “They’re going to yell again,” she says and it sounds like a promise and feels like something bigger. “You wrecked those two semis.”  
  
“Two, not three.”  
  
“Nobody’s perfect. It just gives TV time to show your promo spot again.” Killian scoffs, the muscles in his face almost confused when he smiles. “What…” Emma continues, lip still tugged in between her teeth when she speaks. “What happened? In the crash, I mean. I’ve watched that TV spot eight-hundred times and they say it shouldn’t have happened.”  
  
He quirks an eyebrow, the smile turning into a smirk and, sometimes, it’s easier to be a dick. Even if there isn’t room for them in curling.

Emma sighs.

And, well, that does it.

He tells her.

Again.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Killian mutters. “About...anything, really. Liam, my, uh, my brother he was was always kind of the one making sure I was on some sort of straight and narrow and then the bastard had the gall to go and die and everything just kind of fell apart.”

Emma’s eyes widen, a hint of panic in her stare that twists something in Killian’s gut. He keeps talking.

“So, uh...he gets a bunch of awards from America and the United States Navy for some accident that shouldn’t have happened and...I lose my head for the next six months. Practice way more than I should and harder than I’m supposed to a couple months before the Games and I’m a complete disaster at Worlds and maybe a little sleep deprived and I went to make a move and I bumped him. The guy from the Netherlands. You know, he was supposedly my direct competition?”  
  
“That’s what they said on TV,” Emma mutters and Killian is going to destroy every copy of that spot with his bare hands if he has to.

“They’re not lying about that. So I make my move and bump the guy and the whole world falls apart. I wasn’t thinking. Just racing and trying to get to the front and the podium and it was the dumbest move I’ve ever made. Some Australian’s the last guy standing and he wins a medal and it changes his life and I’m going into shock against the boards. Or so they tell me. I don’t really remember much, honestly. It was loud.”  
  
“That seems to be a trend.”  
  
Killian nods, a noncommittal movement that’s a deflection and a total dick move and Emma sees right through it.

He’s glad.

“But you came back,” she says intently. “I mean, you’re here and two out of three finals appearances really isn’t bad.”  
  
“I feel like you should have said that in rhythm, love.”

She rolls her eyes, smacking her hand against his chest and neither one of them flench when he catches her around her wrist. “I’m trying to give you a compliment. That was a compliment.”

Eventually, he will regret that he doesn’t kiss her right then.

He could have.

He wants to.

He’s, at least, ninety-six and a half percent positive she kind of wants him to as well.

He doesn’t.

Because this is new and cautious and Killian Jones has never considered himself much of a coward, but that was before the boards and the noise and the nearly overwhelming expectations sitting on his shoulders in South Korea.

So, he doesn’t kiss her. He smiles instead. And hopes.

“I know it was,” Killian says. “I appreciate it, Swan. And you’re absolutely going to win a gold medal.”  
  
“Flirt,” she mumbles and he hums in agreement. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Killian nods, silent and a bit nervous and Emma rushes over the words like she’s trying to set some kind of Olympic record. “Why did you come back? Honestly. You didn’t really have to. I bet people told you not to.”  
  
“Several dozen people.”  
  
“So...why’d you do it then?”  
  
Killian considers his answer and it’s a question he’s been asked once a week for the last two years, as soon as he told Team USA he was going to skate again and no one believed he could. And he’s always given the same answer –  _I wanted to_.

It’s not a lie, but it’s not the complete truth either and it’s the same reason he never walked away, even when he felt like he had to.

“My brother used to tell me a man who wasn’t willing to fight for what he wants, gets what he deserves,” Killian says and Emma’s fingers are warm when they lace through his. “I couldn’t..”

“Yeah, I get that,” she finishes. “Stubborn idiots. The both of us.”  
  
“I’m told that’s a prerequisite for Olympians.”

“Probably.” They’re silent for a moment and there’s a security guard looming just out of the corner of his eye, but neither one of them move and Killian’s heart jumps when Emma talks again. “He’d be proud of you,” she says softly, squeezing his hand and Killian skates the best he has in years that afternoon.

* * *

 

Emma Swan and David Nolan become the first-ever gold medal winners in mixed curling on a Saturday morning in South Korea.

Ruby cries.

Belle cries.  
  
Killian cheers.

Loudly.

And Emma’s laugh echoes in his ears when she jumps towards him, an American flag draped over her shoulders and a smile on her face and the moment burns itself into his memory forever.

* * *

They get hot chocolate the next day.

He doesn’t kiss her.

Things are turning desperate.

* * *

He makes two finals and the first one is on a Tuesday evening in the second week he’s in South Korea and Emma is sitting in the stands.

Killian tries not to think about that.

It doesn’t work.

“Stop it,” Robin mutters, keeping his balance even when he rocks back and forth between his blades and the team relay is not Killian’s forte.

There are too many skates and too many blades and it’s impossibly loud because South Korea _fucking loves_ speed skating and Killian’s isn’t sure his heart is supposed to be beating this quickly. Like it’s trying to break his ribs.

“I’m fine,” Killian lies. Robin lifts his eyebrows. “Just...you know.”  
  
Robin nods, clapping a hand on his shoulder when he gets close enough. “Breathe. No sudden movements. Stay in your lane.”

“Right.”  
  
“It’ll be good. Medal good.”  
  
It is not, in fact, good. Medal or otherwise. It’s a goddamn disaster, a mess of bodies and shouts and Killian swears his blood runs cold when he feels his legs go out from underneath him.

He squeezes his eyes closed when his head collides with the board, the visor of his helmet somehow pressing into his nose.

The air seems to catch in his lungs and his throat feels like its shrinking and expanding at the same time, but that might just be a reaction to the distinct lack of oxygen he’s providing his brain and it’s so _fucking_ loud.

They promise it’s not his fault and it really isn’t – not like it was the last time. It’s Italy’s fault and a domino effect that’s “bound to happen when there are so many people so close together.” Or so Belle promises, standing in the hallway outside the locker room.

Killian’s nose is still bleeding. HIs visor cut up his nose. He tries not to dwell on that.

“That guy should be disqualified,” he growls, not the first time he’s proclaimed that and Robin nods defly in agreement.

“Killian?”  
  
He snaps his head up and that’s probably not good for the slightly precarious bandages stuck to the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t care when he sees her face – a flash of green eyes and worried and he’s moving as soon as his brain realizes she’s standing there in front of him.

“Emma,” he mutters and that’s the first time he’s done that. She smiles softly, thumb brushing over his cheek and Killian tries not to collapse against her.

It doesn’t work.

It doesn’t matter.

“Are you ok?” she asks, hands moving over his arms and his shoulders like she’s taking inventory. “That was...I was really worried.”

And, just like that, the world recenters or rights itself or something that is absolutely impossible.

He still doesn’t kiss her.

Idiot.

“I’m fine, love,” Killian says, the smile almost honest. “That Italian guy should have been disqualified though.”  
  
Her laugh is shaky and slightly watery and it does something very particular to, like, his entire life. “Yeah, he was,” Emma mumbles. “God, is that what you’re pissed about?”  
  
“It was a dick move, Swan.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know it was.”  
  
She hugs him before he’s entirely ready for it and Killian is almost worried that Robin’s eyes will actually fall out of his head.

And, just like that, Killian realizes he’s got one more chance to make this right.

He’s going to. 

* * *

 He’s not quite so confident that he’d call any one particular race his “speciality,” but he’s not quite so unconfident that he would say the 1000-meters isn’t his speciality.

The double negatives are confusing.

It’s a Friday and they are running out of Olympics and Killian has less than five minutes to change his entire life.

And impress America.

And Emma.

He mostly cares about Emma.

He glances up to the small section he knows is cheering specifically for him and it’s far closer than he imagined it would be.

Regina knows everyone.

Killian imagined quite a lot.

And it still didn’t get her smile quite right.

If he wins a gold medal he’s absolutely going to kiss her. For sure. Definitely.

He’s just got to win a gold medal.

No big deal.

There’s an announcement and he has to line up and raise his hand when they call his name and nothing is as loud as his own pulse between his ears when the starting noise goes off.

It all kind of happens in a blur.

There are people around him – he can hear them, the sound of their panting turning into some kind of twisted metronome – but Killian just keep staring ahead and biding his time and there’s not much ice left.

They call it short track for a reason.

He makes his move on the eighth lap, an inch of space between the two skaters in front of him that’s just wide enough to twist through and keep his balance, fingers dragging on the ice and blades just barely hanging on.

Killian holds his breath.

And hopes.

He keeps his edge, taking the outside corner with a push of energy and emotion and determination and the cheers seem to settle into his bones and his skates and he doesn’t remember the rest of it.

Honestly.

Killian pushes off his right foot and keeps his center of gravity as low as he possibly can and he’s absolutely lost track of the laps. It doesn’t matter. The cheers are a pretty good indication of when it’s over.

It’s loud.

It’s joyful.

And his knees can’t quite cope with it.

Killian lands on the ice with an impossibly loud thump, hands flat to try and brace his fall and he can’t catch his breath. His mind is still racing and possibly reeling and he won.

He won a gold medal.

In the goddamn, fucking Olympics.

There are chants of _USA, USA, USA_ and his vision blurs in front of him, a lack of oxygen and a distinct surplus of emotion and he needs to stand up, but his limbs don’t want to move and it’ll be embarrassing if he cries on international television.

He takes a deep breath, pulling air in through his nose and closing his eyes and he tries to let it all sink in – the moment and the feeling and how much his thighs are absolutely killing him because it was all absolutely, positively worth it.

Killian pushes himself up, blinking at the crowd and the flags and they’re still yelling, jumping and screaming and he’s only vaguely aware of the announcement and a string of words that sound like Olympic record.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes and it is, unquestionably, the least Olympic response to an Olympic medal in the entire history of sport.

His thighs don’t appreciate it when he starts skating again, tugging off his glasses as he moves and Killian will probably have to thank Regina for whoever she bribed to get these tickets because they’re all leaning over the barricade with flags in their hands and flags painted on their faces and Emma’s smile probably rivals the gold medal they’ll, eventually, give them.

He doesn’t say that out loud.

That would also be embarrassing.

“Nice move,” she shouts. “Super fast. Super impressive.”  
  
“Was that a line? Sounded a lot like a line.”  
  
“It was absolutely a line.”

The crowd makes some kind of ridiculous noise when he jumps the boards and he barely keeps his balance, wobbling on his skates when he lands on slightly cushioned ground. There’s not really a plan, just some kind of absurd _hope_ that lingers in his veins and mixes in with adrenaline and how much he desperately wants to kiss her.

“How do I get up there?” Killian asks and Emma stares at him like he’s started talking in Korean.

“What? No, God, you’re going to kill yourself.”  
  
“Swan, I just set an Olympic record.”  
  
“Those two are not connected at all.”

He smirks at her. And that’s all it takes.

It takes a few minutes to get his skates off and he can feel the cameras on him, the entire goddamn world watching some absurd display of emotion that probably shouldn’t happen after a few weeks, but gravity is still fluctuating and, if necessary, he’ll blame the crowd noise.  

The crowd has nothing to do with it.

Killian nearly falls no less than three times, David and Robin both trying to grab onto his shoulders, but his suit is too aero-dynamic and they can’t get a grip. Emma keeps mumbling _oh my god_ under her breath.

He, eventually, gets on the ledge, hooking his elbows over the barricade so he doesn’t kill himself a few minutes after winning a gold medal, and she rolls her eyes when he flashes her a smile.

“Hey,” Killian grins. “Crazy seeing you here. Are you stalking me, Swan?”

Emma groans, shaking her head and that’s all the warning he gets before she kisses him. Figures.

It’s a rather precarious balancing act and hardly his best work when Emma has to keep pulling him back towards her, but it’s also good and great and a slew of other adjectives and Killian silently congratulates himself when she sighs against his mouth.

He chances moving his arm, left arm finding its way back around her waist and these Olympics are incredibly cyclical. Emma doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stop kissing back or doing whatever it is that she’s doing with her tongue – and he may appreciate that more than the medal and the record combined – and Killian considers that this might be the moment.

Trademark pending.

When he first decided he was going to do _this_ , the training and the working and the skating towards _something_ , Liam promised there would be a moment when, suddenly, it would all be worth it and Killian’s definitely the most sentimental person on the planet because he’s certain this is the moment in some kind of life-altering way.

“There are cameras everywhere,” Emma mutters, but she doesn’t move away from his mouth and her eyes are definitely greener than they were before.

“I absolutely do not care.”  
  
“God, we’re going to be on TV all the time.”  
  
Killian laughs when he ducks his head again and she kisses back and it’s so goddamn perfect it almost unreal.

* * *

 

It’s definitely real.

He gets a medal.

And a medal ceremony.

And they play that clip of him climbing the stands, like, once every hour for the next three days.

Ruby keeps track.

* * *

 

“You have to go answer questions.”

“You have to go answer questions.”

Emma eyes him with something that would almost be frustration if she hadn’t been kissing him a few minutes before. “Do you always have to be right?” she asks, tugging on the front of his red, white and blue sweater and they’re both wearing medals.

It’s only kind of ostentatious.

David promises it’s fine.

Robin laughs.

Ruby and Belle take photos.

“No,” Killian says. “Just tends to happen more often than not. And if I go do this interview are you going to run onto the set again?”

“There was no set. You were blocking the way.”  
  
“Ah, you ran into me, love.”  
  
“I tripped over wires. Because they were a hazard. You were a hazard.”

“I’m still not in charge of NBC, Swan.”  
  
She groans, but there’s a smile on her face when she presses up on her toes and catches his lips with hers, fingers knocking his hat off his head when she cards her fingers through his hair. “Idiot,” Emma mumbles and there’s an affection in the word that does several different things to several different parts of his life and the moment seems to continue forever.

He stands just off camera when NBC interviews her and David, the medals around their neck reflecting the lights and it’s loud when they walk back into the arena.

Together.

* * *

The moment never really stops being a moment. It just, sort of, evolves into their life and the future and they, somehow, settle into something even when they get stateside.

And months later with snow falling and actual, honest to God brooms in their hand that they stole from the closet in Ruth’s laundry room, Killian wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders and whispers the words in her ears.

She’s holding hot chocolate.

It’s quiet.

“I love you,” he says, soft and honest and more important than any question he’s ever answered.

She turns slowly, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly and he tries not to yell when she answers. “I love you too,” Emma whispers and he hears her perfectly.


End file.
